First Strike

by Jeremy Rumfitt

  ***

  12

  At seven twenty five on a bitterly cold February evening the train pulled into Guildford station. It was only fifteen minutes late. Bowman stood at the head of the platform and spotted Melanie heading towards him from thirty yards away. She moved like a young girl, a dancer. She wore jeans and a long flowing Nicole Farhi overcoat. Her large green eyes were framed in wire-rimmed glasses. Her auburn hair was tied back in an unfashionable bun and her nose and cheeks were pink. If she was wearing make-up it didn't show. She looked as fresh as if she’d just stepped out of the shower.

  Melanie put down her case and held out her hand. Bowman leaned forward, held her by the shoulders, kissed her on both cheeks and stepped back to look her over. She was thinner than he remembered. More delicate. More fragile. But then Melanie Drake had suffered more traumas in the last eighteen months than most people went through in a lifetime.

  “Hi, Alex,” Melanie grinned. “How’s the wound?” She tapped him gently on the shoulder.

  “Pretty much healed,” Bowman beamed. “The specialist says I’ll be swimming again by April.”

  He picked up her case with his good hand and headed for the car park. Melanie took hold of his free arm and wondered if she was right to come. Seeing Alex again brought back too many painful memories. But there were good ones too. Comforting ones.

  Back at the cottage Melanie disappeared upstairs to bathe and change while Bowman stoked the fire and prepared a simple supper of Gazpacho, which he made himself, cold ham, chorizo and an aged manchego he’d bought from the deli in the village, washed down with an outstanding Tempranillo from the north bank of the Duero, he’d found at the local off-license. When Melanie came downstairs she had changed into a simple white shift dress, no make-up or jewellery, no other adornment was needed. They ate in the sitting room picnic style, enjoying the warmth of the log fire. Melanie felt truly contented. The shitty part of her life was over. This was a new beginning. She hoped it was the same for him.

  “So when do you plan on going back to Spain, Alex?”

  “In a couple of months. The specialist still wants to tweak my shoulder, but the security business will go down the tube if I don’t get back there soon, I still have to make a living and right now I’ve no idea where the next job is coming from.”

  “Don’t you miss it?”

  “Spain? Sure. I miss the farmhouse in San Roque. And I miss being busy.” Bowman poured the last of the Tempranillo. “How about you, Mel? Happy to be back at the Echo?”

  “Very.” Melanie savoured the wine. “I need some stability back in my life. The Echo’s been really good to me, Alex, taking me back on the payroll. I have my old job back. Chief Investigative Reporter. They even gave me a raise.”

  “You don’t find it dull? After going freelance?”

  “Dull is great, Alex. Dull is what I need. Besides, it’s not that dull. Guess who I interviewed last week?”

  “After the President of the United States, nothing would surprise me.”

  “Just the new head of MI6,” Melanie beamed. “She told me some amazing stuff.”

  “What sort of stuff?”

  “The sort of stuff I can’t repeat, but let’s say some very useful background.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Matter of fact she asked after you.”

  “Merlyn Stanbridge asked after me?”

  Bowman was genuinely surprised.

  “How come she knows about me?”

  “Come on, Alex,” Melanie laughed. “She is the head of MI6. And don’t you be so modest. She knows what you did in Morocco. She knows about Ambrose too. She said something really odd, as a matter of fact. About the two of you.”

  “And what was that?” Bowman’s brow was furrowed.

  “I told her you’d gone to Fez to spend some time with Ambrose. She said ‘Oh dear, I do hope they’re not going to be a nuisance.’ Something like that. I thought it was really strange.”

  “Strange? I’ll say it was strange. I wonder what she meant by that?”

  “She wants to meet you.”

  “Merlyn Stanbridge wants to meet me?”

  Bowman emptied his glass. He had a sinking sensation in his stomach. The wound in his shoulder began to ache. Maybe he should have gone straight back to Spain. He had a business to run. Clients to look after.

  “I don’t think I was there to interview her, Alex. I think I was there so she could interview me. But maybe I was just the decoy. I think it’s you she really wants to meet. She wants us all to have supper at her club. Would you like to?”

  “No way, Mel. I’ve had enough for now. I’m tired. I need some time to myself.”

  “Wouldn’t it be good for your career? It isn’t every gumshoe gets to dine with the head of MI6.”

  “Some other time, Mel. Just not now. Just not this year.”

  Bowman cleared the table and stacked the dishes in the sink, ready for the morning when the cleaner would come from the village. It was good to be with Melanie again. Of all the women he knew she was the one he most admired. It wasn’t a sexual thing. It was more than that. He admired her guts. Her independence. After everything she’d been through Melanie Drake had kept her self-esteem intact. And then there were the things they had in common. Hitchcock in black and white, Almódovar in colour. Ellington and Lester Young, Telemann and Tallis. Turner and Goya. Nielsen and The Beachboys.

  Bowman made coffee, joined Melanie in the sitting room, and scanned the collection of CD’s the cottage owner had thoughtfully left on the shelves along with some old vinyls. One or two choice items caught Bowman’s eye. He slotted a copy of Oscar Brown Jr’s ‘Sin and Soul and Then Some.’ in the CD player and sat down to listen to the lyrics. Melanie was stretched out on the sofa flicking through a glossy magazine. Reflections from the fire danced on her auburn hair. She had taken off her shoes and her legs had disappeared inside her dress. Bowman went to the drinks cabinet, poured neat Glenlivet into a shot glass and took a little sip. It was a perfect moment. Talk would spoil it. Neither of them spoke for quite a while. Then Melanie stretched, yawned, looked up from her magazine and said,

  “Alex, what exactly is a Dirty Bomb?”

  “A Dirty Bomb?” Bowman froze. “How did we get to Dirty Bombs?”

  “Merlyn Stanbridge passed me a lead for a story in the Echo. There’s a rumour the IRA could be in the market for a Dirty Bomb. We’re running a major piece in tomorrow morning’s paper.”

  Alex Bowman went to the window and looked out over the illuminated garden. It was an idyllic, peaceful scene. It resembled his life the way he wanted it to be. Quiet. Well ordered. A little past its best. He spoke with his back to her.

  “A Dirty Bomb has three components. A conventional explosive, like Semtex or TNT. A detonator, which is the only tricky part, and some nuclear waste. Strontium 90. Iridium 192. Cobalt 60. There may be others. I’m no expert. There’s hundreds of places you can get the stuff. Russia. China. Israel. The Ukraine. Right here in the UK. Sellafield’s awash with it. You set off an explosion with the TNT and disperse wind-born nuclear waste over as large an area as possible.”

  “But it’s not a nuclear bomb?”

  “That’s right. But it is the ultimate terror weapon. It’s called a weapon of mass disruption, not destruction. The killing zone may be no more than a square mile, so it wouldn’t wipe out that many people, say several thousand in a densely populated area. But it would cause massive panic and the entire site would be contaminated for years, probably decades. The explosion would disperse the nuclear waste for miles around. The place would be uninhabitable. The real estate market would collapse. So if we’re talking about the centre of a major city the clean-up cost would be enormous. Meantime a whole city would be paralysed. If it happened on Wall Street or the City of London worldwide financial markets would implode. There’d be total chaos.”

  “Jesus,” said Melanie. “Has one ever been set off?”

  “Not yet. But it has been tri
ed. The Chechens came very close. Planted a bomb in a Moscow park a couple of years ago. But it failed to detonate, thank God.”

  “You think the IRA would do that?”

  Melanie had gone white, the colour drained from her face.

  “What would happen to the peace process?”

  “I’m a copper, Not a politician.” Bowman turned to face her. “But if Merlyn Stanbridge still wants that meeting, tell her I’d be happy to accept.”

  Next morning Bowman rose early, made himself coffee, and walked three miles in freezing rain to the village, leaving Melanie asleep in the spare room. When he got there Petworth was just beginning its day. Bowman bought the Times and the Echo at the station and found a café that was serving breakfast. He ordered the full English and scanned the Times. Emblazoned above the smiling face of the Secretary of Defence the banner headline proclaimed “Weapons of Mass Destruction – Search Goes On”. There were further revelations of terrorist plots in America but nothing about a Dirty Bomb. With each new threat the President’s popularity soared. The Echo’s front page was again devoted to reports America was preparing a first strike against Saddam Hussein. Hawks in the Pentagon, led by the Secretary of Defence, asserted war with Iraq was inevitable and now was as good a time as any to launch a pre-emptive attack. The longer they waited the stronger the Iraqi dictator became. Bowman eventually spotted Melanie’s brief piece tucked away on page four between a cabinet minister’s infidelities and an archbishop’s endorsement of extra-marital sex. Bowman read the article while he waited for his coffee.

  “Three members of the Irish Republican Army were arrested yesterday by agents of DAS, the Colombian Secret Service, at El Dorado International airport in Bogotá. The three were travelling on false British passports and are known to have come from the FARC safe-haven in the south of the country. Traces of explosive were detected on their clothing and luggage. Among the Irish nationals was the IRA’s leading explosives engineer and mortar expert. The three claimed they were in Colombia to monitor peace efforts between the government and rebel groups but were later indicted and charged with training FARC terrorists in urban warfare techniques. But if the three Irish nationals were legitimately concerned with the peace process in Colombia, why would they need false passports? And why would the IRA have sent explosives experts? Furthermore in light of strict IRA discipline against freelancing by its members, what did the IRA’s political leadership know about these activities? Meanwhile in Dublin IRA/Sinn Fein denied all knowledge of the detainees.”

  When Bowman returned to the cottage he found Melanie sitting in the kitchen drinking tea. He placed the article in front of her on the table.

  “There you are,” Bowman grinned contentedly. “It didn’t even make the headlines. And no mention of a Dirty Bomb.”

  He dumped the papers on the table and went upstairs to shower and change into dry clothes.

  Bowman re-joined Melanie in the kitchen and made fresh coffee.

  She said,

  “That’s not the article I wrote. It’s been edited to death.”

  She was angry.

  “OK, so Iraq is more important, it deserves the front page, I accept that. But this was supposed to be a major exclusive. I was expecting a banner headline, not a few column inches lost on an inside page. My lead from MI6 definitely involved a Dirty Bomb. And another thing. There were supposed to be four Irishmen. Not three.”

  She crushed the paper in her hands.

  “Maybe the facts didn’t check out. Maybe it was all just speculation after all. But I should at least have been consulted before they pulled my stuff. Either way Merlyn Stanbridge owes me.”

  Next day after church they rode out to an isolated country pub in the middle of the Downs where Bowman had reserved a table for Sunday lunch. Bowman ordered a pint of London Pride and insisted on a straight thin glass. Melanie quaffed half a pint of draught Guinness. They sat in the cosy bar flicking through the broadsheets. Bowman browsed the Echo while Melanie scrutinised the opposition.

  “Oh shit!” said Bowman.

  “What?” said Melanie.

  Bowman read aloud, “Chief Investigative Reporter Melanie Drake exposes Moroccan Cocaine Plantation on Europe’s Doorstep. See next Saturday’s edition. Order your copy from reputable newsagents now.”

  “So? What’s wrong with that?”

  Melanie thought it sounded fine.

  “Nothing,” Bowman sighed. “I’m sure it’ll be OK.”

  ***

  13

  It was years since Frank Willowby had seen action of any kind. But he had kept himself in shape, went to the gym most days and did small arms practice twice a week in the firing range beneath the Embassy in Grosvenor Square. So he reckoned his reactions were still pretty sharp. He flew into Tangier, rented a car, drove three hundred clicks southeast to Fez and checked in to the Palais Jamaî.

  “My name’s Willowby.”

  He handed the receptionist his diplomatic passport.

  “Mr Ambrose reserved a room for me.”

  “Welcome to the Palais Jamaî,” said the desk clerk. “I’ve allocated the same accommodation as Mr Ambrose’s English friend. Mr Bowman commented how much he enjoyed the view of the Medina.”

  “Bowman was here?” said Willowby. “I didn’t know that. I’d have liked to meet him.”

  “He checked out yesterday,” said the clerk.

  Alone in his room Willowby unpacked his suitcase, reassembled the sub-compact Beretta semi-automatic and thanked God for diplomatic immunity. He rammed home the clip, checked the safety and tucked the little weapon in his trouser pocket. Then he went down to the terrace overlooking the gardens, ordered tea and waited for Ambrose to get back from his language class. He wasn’t sure exactly how to play it. The revelation the DEA’s top man in Europe was working for the other side would be too much for Ambrose to swallow at one bite. Willowby would have to feed it to his subordinate a morsel at a time. Make it easy to digest. It was only later when they were having dinner on the terrace that Willowby had his first opportunity to plant a seed.

  “How was your vacation?” Ambrose enquired.

  “Great,” said Willowby. “Spent ten days at my ranch in Colorado, which was nice. Don’t get to go there much. You should come visit sometime. I have a three hundred acre spread just outside of Aspen. Great skiing in winter.”

  Ambrose wondered what a place like that would cost and how much a guy like Willowby could earn. Certainly not enough to pay for three hundred acres of prime Colorado real estate. Family money, Ambrose surmised. Inherited wealth. Maybe a profitable marriage. Later in his room Ambrose got out his laptop and dialled into the DEA’s website. In seconds he had Frank Willowby’s bio on the screen. Born and raised in a hick town in rural Pennsylvania. Father a mechanic. Educated at the local public school. Scholarship to Penn State. Married a primary school teacher. Family money was definitely not the answer. Nor was a profitable marriage. Next Ambrose scrolled through Willowby’s early career in Miami. He’d made a succession of impressive busts, nothing really major but good solid investigative work, been fast-tracked through the ranks. Frank Willowby was a very competent agent. Or unusually well informed.

  “This is really silly,” thought Ambrose. “If Willowby had bought the ranch with illicit funds, he wouldn’t have told me about it, would he? Or would he?”

  Next morning Willowby and Ambrose had breakfast together on the terrace by the pool.

  “Ben,” said Willowby. “There’s some things we need to discuss, concerning you and this guy Bowman.”

  “Bowman? What about Bowman?”

  “He was staying here at the hotel just recently. You wired the Embassy for funds, so you could pay his room bill. Am I right?”

  “Bowman’s a friend of mine. Did some odd jobs for me on the Costa del Sol.”

  “And you used Uncle Sam’s bucks to pay his hotel bill? Do you think that’s an appropriate use of company funds?”

  Ambrose began to sweat. He didn’
t answer right away. Then he said,

  “I’m sorry Sir... I shouldn’t have but...”

  Willowby silenced him with a gesture.

  “Ben it’s OK, really it is. So you paid your buddy’s bill with company funds. Big deal. I’ve done the same thing myself, many a time.”

  “You have?”

  Ambrose was dumbstruck.

  “Sure I have. DEA’s awash with funds. Nobody keeps track. I found that out years ago.” Willowby was grinning. “How d’you think I paid for the ranch?”

  “The ranch?”

  “Only kidding, Ben. Only kidding. Don’t look so shocked. Besides, the ranch cost millions. Can’t get sums like that out of petty cash.”

  Ambrose couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

  “Anyway, Ben, your friend Bowman, where is he now?”

  “Gone back to England to get some a rest. He’s rented a cottage some place in the country. I don’t have an address, just his email.”

  “Too bad. I’d really like to meet him. He sounds like an impressive guy.”